


Cursed Fado

by D_Joana_a_Shippadora



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/F, F/M, Historical, I swear to God that there's fluffy, M/M, Psychological Torture, Romance, Torture, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-27
Updated: 2017-11-16
Packaged: 2018-12-20 15:42:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11924034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/D_Joana_a_Shippadora/pseuds/D_Joana_a_Shippadora
Summary: Ever since he was born, Afonso’s destiny was already traced. He was bound to great discoveries and riches, as well as great misfortunes and pains.However, what did he know about that? He was an unreliable pawn in the big game of life. No matter how much he tries, he couldn’t escape the destiny of being a country.It was as if he was being manipulated by invisible wires, while God appreciates the show.And, during this show, the most painful and cruel Fado ever existed will be played…… Silence, it’s going be sing the Fado!





	1. Fado

**Author's Note:**

> Hello!  
> Here I am with my best fanfic ever!
> 
> As you can see in the tags, this fanfic is really hardcore, so, please, beware. If you don't like or are sensible, don't read. This is for the best. This chapter isn't that hardcore, but the next ones...  
> Another thing, at the beginning, you'll notice some prejudice against Muslims, Jews and Homosexuals; that's because it's during the Inquisition. I condemn that prejudices, however, I wanted to be more coherent with the time. And this is part of the growth of the characters; they'll become better people in the end.  
> This fanfic is also posted in Portuguese with the name "Maldito Fado", at SocialSpirit and Nyah!Fanfiction.  
> Beta reading by lyalith, thank you so much, girl <3 
> 
> So, please, enjoy!

Ever since he was born, Afonso’s destiny was already traced. He was bound to great discoveries and riches, as well as great misfortunes and pains.

However, what did he know about that? He was an unreliable pawn in the big game of life. No matter how much he tries, he couldn’t escape the destiny of being a country.

It was as if he was being manipulated by invisible wires, while God appreciates the show.

And, during this show, the most painful and cruel Fado ever existed will be played…

… Silence, it’s going be sing the Fado!

 

**_1578_ **

 

Beams of light, rare and scarce, entered shyly, yet persistently, through the gap between the thick red curtains of the bedroom window. The sun was just born and the roster had already done the honors of gloriously singing.

In the big bed, the lovers slept, tired after the long night of love they had. The first one to wake up looked at the other one and smiled. The physical constitution of his beloved nation, Portugal (or Afonso to the closer ones, including him), may be the most beautiful that he had ever seen. Afonso’s long brown hair was, in that moment, untied, free of the blue silk tie that the oldest insisted on using. As he knows, it was a gift by Macau – and, knowing that, it was almost impossible to not get jealous.

But at the moment that didn’t matter. At the swarthy body of his beloved, several “gifts” were scattered, proofs of love from the blond one. He observed the other’s nape and gazed at his back, which held, beyond the marks of love, some scars resulting from the battles against the Moors. He didn’t like the idea that someone hurt Afonso to the point to leave scars.

He leaned over the other and started to kiss every mark, every scar, with affection.

 

“Your Highness…?”

“Call me Sebastião, Fonz,” the blond asked, kissing again his nation’s skin.

“As you wish, _Dom_ Sebastião,” he smiled peskily and turned forward. “Don’t you want to kiss somewhere else?”

 

The king smiled and put his hands on Afonso’s cheeks. He looked at his green eyes, such a beautiful and brilliant hue; he compared that tonality to the color of the leaves, of the most beautiful olive trees, with dew illuminated by the Sun. Beneath his right eye, there was a single beauty mark.

 

“You like to look into my eyes,” commented the brunette, smiling. Sebastião loved that smile.

“Your eyes are the most beautiful I’ve ever seen.”

“Have you already seen yours?” he asked, putting one hand in Sebastião’s face. “It’s such a beautiful blue.”

 

The blond didn’t respond and kissed Afonso, who corresponded, allowing the entrance of the tongue of the other. The older man wrapped his arms around Sebastião's neck, forcing him to remove his hands from Afonso's face, now being at his waist. He descended a little more and felt the buttocks, which made the swarthy man groan in surprise.

They separated from the kiss and the human began to kiss the neck of the other, leaving one or other mark, while playing with Afonso's butt.

 

“Idiot! You need to prepare to the battle!”

“I have time for that later,” retorted the blond, continuing what he was doing. “We stayed months without seeing each other and we’ll stay even longer when I leave to Africa.”

 

The king placed his head on the chest of Afonso and closes his eyes: he was hearing his heartbeat, fast and uncontrolled. Then the older man's scent invaded his nostrils; it was a mixture of lavender, sea, and cinnamon, the customary scents of the sailor. That scent of cinnamon was, moreover, the proof that Afonso had returned from the Indies last day.

 

“You smell good!~” commented Sebastião, who received a shocked look from the other.

“You have lost your mind!” announced Portugal. “I’m already without bathing for some time…”

“You don’t have fault, traveling last for months…”

 

Afonso looked at him. He looked if as he was sad and that made his heart tight. He misses him so much when the brunette wasn’t around? Well, Afonso misses him so much that he always was thinking about his king; so much that, during the return voyage, every time that his caravel stopped to stock, he showered – which, sincerely, isn’t very common between sailors. Anyway, he wanted to be presentable when he arrived at the castle. He feels that he _shouldn’t_ care about his appearance – and that’s why that if it were not for the aias who insist on preparing his clothes, he would walk in tatters. He was a navigator who was part of the sea, of the adventures on the high seas, of the discovery of the unknown; not of royalty, of the chic dances, of the charming clothes. He felt that he shouldn’t be part of that world, that he _couldn’t_.

But Sebastião… Oh, for Sebastião, he was willing to enter that world of etiquettes and appearances.

In the end, he sighed and gave up. He sat on his lap, wrapped his legs around his waist, and brought his lips to the king's ear, biting the tip.

 

“Do whatever you want.~” he whispered, seductively.

“I love you, Fonz.~”

“I love you too.~”

 

Sebastião kissed him again and made him lie down carefully on the bed; it was as if Afonso were fragile and could break at any moment – something that made the brunette strange since the king is not usually so careful.

For some reason he doesn’t even understand, Afonso thought that this would be their last time.

 

***

 

“Your Highness, you must control yourself!” began Afonso, complaining as he walked through one of the corridors. “You look like a rabbit in heat!”

“Fonz, stop being formal with me.~”

"No, sir!” he exclaimed irritably. “Now, you, sir, will have to learn to control yourself or I will never be more informal with you!”

 

Sebastião smiled and hugged the other from behind.

 

“Don’t be mean to me!~”

“I’m not being mean, just realistic.”

 

The monarch laughed and pressed the older man to the wall, facing him. He placed his leg between the other’s and both arms against the wall; in this way, Afonso was deprived of flight.

 

“As your king, I order you to treat me informally.~”

“That’s cheating, Your Highness!”

“ “That’s cheating, Sebastião” you wanted to say!~”

“Silly.” he smiled and pulled him for a quick kiss. “Now free me before anyone sees us.”

“I wouldn’t mind if others saw us like this!”

“And what will be the excuse?” asked Afonso, provocative. ““I thought he was a bear”?”

“Ah, Afonso, I swear I didn’t have an affair with that slave!”

“Hum, I know...” the brunette was jealous; he confesses. “Well, we weren’t lovers at the time, so who I am to judge you of your nocturnal adventures?”

“You are jealous!” exclaimed the blond, excited. So he was not the only one who feels jealousy!

“Do you have a problem with that?”

“None, of course!”

 

The younger one stole a kiss from the other, and when he separated, he stared into Afonso's green eyes.

 

“I love you immensely, Fonz. Do not forget me, will you?”

“Why would I forget?” asked the older man, confused. “You will return to me later, aren’t you?”

 

Sebastião didn’t respond; he smiled in a hurt way. He walked away and strode down the corridor, in quick steps, leaving behind an Afonso with his heart in his hands, terrified by the uncertainty of the future.

 

***

 

As Afonso feared, the bad news came early. His beloved disappeared during the battle – no one knew where he was and therefore they thought him dead. Sebastião had perished, and, with him, all the dreams and plans which Afonso had thought to have with his lover disappeared like a drop on a hot day.

 

“Bastard!” he exclaimed, alone in his room. “Damn you! You knew what was going to happen to you, didn’t you?!”

 

The Portuguese wept without stopping; his eyes were red from crying. He approached his dressing table and looked at the mirror. He felt a pang of anger and frustration and, in a fit, shoved everything on the dressing table. Bottles of expensive perfumes and Chinese porcelains broke while meeting the floor. A dying scent filled the room.

 

“Damn ...!” he bit his lip hard, wanting to wake up from that nightmare; the metallic taste invaded his mouth and this only frustrated him further.

 

He kicked the dressing table seat, knocking him hard. Then he went to his desk, full of papers, and tossed them to the floor. Vessel plans, models for future vessels, nautical charts, letters to his colonies, others that had been sent by them, reports, drafts of drawings …

He walked over to the bed and dropped to his knees beside it, resting his head on the mattress. He threw a punch, frustrated, in the bed.

 

“God, why did you take my Sebastião?” he asked angrily. “He did everything that you asked for...! True, he sinned out of love, but, Lord, he suffered so much and we never noticed what that monster was doing...!” he clasped his hands in prayer. “Please, God, give me back my Sebastião... I have always kept Your orders... We are faulty to love someone of the same sex as ourselves, but You have to forgive us…”

 

Someone knocks on the door, and he, believer as he is, thought immediately that his prayers had been heard. If that were the case, it would have been too fast, yes, but never doubt the hopes of a desperate man. He ran to the door, a hopeful smile on his face. He opened it and saw Lisbon with a box in her hands.

Her brown hair was tied in a braid that was wrapped in a tightly made coke, and she wore a white headband, and wore a royal dress in burgundy and brown tones. In Afonso's opinion, those clothes were too mature for the Lisbon girl who seemed to be a teenager.

 

“My God, _senhor meu pai_ , you are in a state of pity!” she exclaimed, her green eyes widening. “And your room…!”

“What did you come here for, Amália?”

“Oh, you are rude to your own daughter!” she said, rolling her eyes. “They found this box in his highness's room. It's for you, _senhor meu pai_.”

 

Afonso's eyes brightened a little and he hurriedly took the box from Amália's hand,  which frightened her. She wasn’t expecting that reaction from the older man. Portugal walked to his bed and put the box on top of it. He opened it at once and his eyes widened at the contents: they were immense ribbons of various colors, patterns and fabrics, and a sealed letter.

He turned to the girl, who was still at the door.

 

“What are you still doing here?”

“Again, rude.” she declares, folding her arms. “They asked to inform you that João, Antónia and the Mouro will return tomorrow with wounded soldiers. The others will still fight.”

“I don’t believe, they let Antónia go?!”

“She got on the boat without anyone knowing,” she said with a shrug. “At least she killed a few Moors.”

“And Mário?”

“João made the Mouro kill. He must have suffered by killing his ex-siblings,” she smiled sarcastically. “The image must have been beautiful.~”

“You talk as if you never been a Moor before,” he commented acid.

“ _Ora essa_ , _senhor meu pai_ , let’s don’t talk about my dark past. What matters is that I gave myself to the true and great Lord. My body and soul belong to Him.”

“Sure, sure…”

 

He approached her and moved away from the door, just to close it on Amália's face, which she complained for a few minutes. As soon as the cries of Lisbon ceased, the Portuguese took the letter and opened it urgently.

 

“ _Dear Afonso_ ,

_If you are reading this letter, it means that I died or disappeared during the battle._

_I need to tell you the truth, my love. That probably didn’t happen by accident._

_I'm weak, Afonso. Not in the fight: I’m an excellent warrior and hunter, perhaps a little too hasty. I’m, however, mentally weak. From a young age, I was pressured to be a warrior king and conqueror. Nothing else mattered to those nobles who only want land. Yet did anyone teach me to rule my own lands? No._

_This pressure, along with the memories of the abuse I suffered, made my life a hell. Your presence, however, softened immensely this hell of a life. But I'm weak, Fonz. I can’t take this anymore. If I died in battle, it's because I wanted to._

_I wonder if I'm going to hell for loving you, Fonz. They preach to us that it is wrong and that we will burn in hell, but didn't God say to love our neighbor? True, He condemns us for sleeping together, but ... I don’t understand this contradiction. By the way, why did we kill Moors? We should love them, shouldn’t we? I don’t understand anything._

_Anyway, Afonso, I don’t want you to cry. I want you to always smile, even with problems. After all, your smile is the most beautiful of all. Whenever I look at you, smiling, I become more relaxed and it seems that all my problems have disappeared. I wonder if this is because I’m madly in love with you or if it happens to everyone that looks at you._

_I don’t know what it would be without you. Maybe I would have killed myself earlier if you had not saved me from that... You know who I mean, don’t you? I'm sorry, but those memories have surfaced here._

_Fonz, you were the best thing that could have happened to me. I’m proud to have been the King of a nation as wonderful and beautiful as you._

_There are no words that describe what I feel for you. I love you, but maybe "love" is not enough. I feel that this was the work of fate; we were meant to be together, but the end came to me._

_I'm very sorry, Fonz. You fell in love with a coward like me. I’m a human full of failures, perhaps the best term to characterize me would be imperfect._

_Please, my eternal Afonso, don't forget me._

_With love,_

_Of your eternal Sebastião. "_

 

When Alfonso finished reading, he was incredulous with that. He didn’t know what to say or what to do, if not cry more. It was an automatic thing to happened: tears welled up in his eyes and those who dared to fall on the letter erased the ink. He had so much to say about it, but the words didn’t come out of his throat.

He threw the letter over the bed and pushed the box of ribbons to the floor. He began to scream, cursing everyone and everything, even God. He approached a chest of drawers, made of oak, and knocked over everything on top. They were religious figures who broke apart on reaching the ground.

 

“Please …” he murmured, almost without strength.  “Give me back my Sebastião!” this time, he shouted, loud and audible, looking at the figure of Jesus, broken as the heart of Afonso. “Please…!”

 

He fell to his knees again. He was desperate to wake up from that nightmare; Sebastião is … Was the love of his life.

He looked at his sword, leaning against the wall. Suicidal thoughts crossed his mind; he had never thought of death so hard. In fact, he'd never thought of killing himself. He was immortal, he knew it well, but he wanted to die.

He grasped the newly sharpened sword. He had shed so much unfaithful blood with that blade. Now that steel would tarnish with his. In mere minutes, that blade pierced the stomach of the Portuguese. There was no hesitation – the desire to die was too big.

Almost immediately, he spat blood and the metallic taste invaded his mouth again.

The pain was unbearable and worse than any he had ever felt, which made no sense: he had already taken bigger strokes that should have overcome that pain.

He heard a male voice in the hallway knocking on the door. Afonso remained silent, while more blood came out; Nothing else mattered to him.

 

“Excuse…” the door was opened. “ _Senhor meu pai_!”

 

The boy hurried into the room and ran to the side of Afonso who identified him as Júlio, also known as Braganza. His hair was a very dark brown and his eyes were purplish-blue. Something impossible to notice was the scar on his left ear, just where one of his peiot was. When the Inquisition began, João had forced him to cut off the tabs; as he had denied, the Oporto boy was forced to cut himself and, by accident, the blade of the knife hit the face, leaving that wound - plus a trauma for life.

 

“What happened with you, sir?!”

 

Afonso didn’t answer. He closed his eyes and, in seconds, he lost consciousness.

 

***

 

Amália stared at the number of survivors bewildered. They were ... So few. She was sure there were more.

As soon as she saw her siblings, she hurried over. Certainly, a port wasn’t a suitable place for a lady like her. She was afraid of being touched by a commoner or a sailor. The smell was horrible and the sight of the vessels and wounded soldiers ... Painful.

The first to notice her was João. His black hair, always carefully combed, was disheveled and visibly dirty, and his brown eyes followed her walk. He was dirty with blood and had an arm attached to his chest.

Then it was Mário (or "Mouro", as she and others called him) who notice her and, with his brownish-green eyes, despised her - which infuriated her, by the way. No one dared to look at her like this. His brown curly hair was also unkempt. He didn’t appear to be injured, despite his blood-stained armor. Well, Lisbon knew he was broken inside and it made her smile.

 

“I thought there were more people.”

 

Antónia looked at her, with grief in her water-green eyes. Her long red hair was cut so that she looked like a man. She was tired, mentally worn. _The war isn’t for women,_ thought Lisbon. Looking at her hand, Amália noticed that the Aveiro woman was gripping a third with strength.

 

“And more people came,” she said. “But they didn’t survive the trip.”

“Where are the corpses?”

“At the sea,” answered João. “We couldn’t risk having an epidemic on board.”

“How come there were so many casualties...?”

 

They looked at each other, not knowing how to tell how it had happened. João snorted angrily.

 

“Do you want to know?! It’s all our King's fault!”

“Look what you say, João!” scolded Amália.

“He's right, Amália…” Antónia sighed, fingering her hair.

“What…?”

“He is suicidal! He, who knows nothing of battles, wouldn’t listen to my advice! Neither of the others, much more experienced than he! He didn’t even give us words of encouragement! What kind of commander is that, Amália?!”

 

The brunette didn’t know what to say. The redhead, in her turn, sighed.

 

“How's dad?”

“Terrible.” she said, looking sideways. “As soon as he heard of the king's death, he went mad. He even tried to kill himself.”

“Did he try to kill himself? Why?” Antónia asked in surprise.

“You know very well why, Antónia,“ said João in a grumble. “The father and the king were lovers.”

“That's just a rumor, João! Don’t you dare defame the image of our father and of our Highness!” Amália warned furiously.

“Their image is already defamed,” commented Mário.

“Shut up, Mouro! You don’t have a say in the matter!”

 

Mário merely rolled his eyes. He didn’t want to know whether he would be hated by them or not. He was already used to it, and nothing would cure the state of his heart. The Aveirense, on the other hand, sighs. He was right and even she couldn’t deny it.

 

“Amália, that's enough.” Antónia asked. “As most incredible may appear, Mouro is right. The rumors already spoil the image of our father.”

“I mean, if it's really just rumors.”

“João…!”

“Amália, deep down, you know it's true.”

“No! Our father and our Excellency would never be... Sick like this!”

“You have a perfect picture of your father, Amália,” commented João, clicking his tongue. “And if the father was really "sick" as you say, he wouldn’t cease to be the father who always supported us and helped us whenever possible.”

 

Amália fell silent, not knowing what to say.

Because there was nothing to say.

**_fado_ ** ,

_****1**. ** Fate inexorable and blind;_

_****2**. ** Luck; fortune;_

_****3**. ** Sentence of Oracle;_

_****4**. ** Fatality;_

_****5**. ** Portuguese popular song of tender and painful music; the melody of that song._

 

 

 

 


	2. Union

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone!
> 
> I hope I didn't take too long to post this chapter! (/owo)/  
> I don't have much to say, to be honest. I'm a little upset, since my cat died recently. But life goes on and I have to be strong.  
> Also, again, beta reading by lyalith, thank you so much, girl! <3
> 
> I hope you enjoy this chapter. Thank you very much for following this fanfic.  
> Good reading!

**_1581_ **

 

Afonso looked out the large window in his room; there were swallows flying, freer than he. Yes, _freer_.

On that day, Portugal and Spain would be ruled by the same King. And with that, Afonso and his younger brother, Antonio, would be married.

It was a political marriage, nothing more. Fonz, however, didn’t like the idea; if it were to marry with someone, that it was with his Sebastião... But now it was late; too late.

 

“Poncho!~” Antonio entered Alfonso's room without, at least, knocking at the door. He looked around, startling the decor. Or rather: lack of decoration. “ _Hermano_ , I swore that you would have... Religious decoration.”

“I had, but..." he had broken all the decorations when he knew about Sebastião's death. “But…”

“Oh, don’t tell me you're no longer a believer…!”

“I am,” he showed the crucifix around his neck. “They broke during an earthquake.”

“The one from 15… 31?”

“Yes.”

“It's been so many years!”

“I know, but I didn’t want to see my holy figures broken again if there were another earthquake; something that hasn’t happened yet.”

 

Antonio wasn’t convinced with that answer, but he couldn’t accuse his brother being heretic at the time.

 

“Anyway, let's go tonight to Madrid! ~ Did you know that now Madrid is the capital?~”

“I wasn’t aware of that. How did Diego react?”

“Bad." He shrugged. "He wanted Toledo to remain the capital."

 

_And I want a king who isn’t Castilian_ , thought Afonso, in an irritated tone.

 

“Are you sure you don’t want a formal marriage, Poncho?” Asked Antonio, smiling. “You'd be beautiful in a wedding dress!~”

“Why do I have to be the woman?”

“Because you're always the woman! Since the time when ... Ah, we were of that sort…” he said, contemptuously, “That Moor used to call you ‘my girl’.”

“That Moor was our father, Antonio. Whether you want it or not.”

 

Antonio was irritated by that statement and approached the older brother.

 

“Be careful with what you say, Afonso,” he warned, in a whisper near his ear. “You can pay dearly for that.”

“... Right…”

“ _Que bueno_!” He kiss his cheek. “Rod let us have a bridal night!”

“... What?”

“Oh! _Hermano_ , don’t you know what to do on a bridal night?”

“Of course I know!” He felt his cheeks burn. “Why do we have to do this?! We are brothers, Antonio! And you're married to Roderich!”

“It's to seal a contract!~”

“It's wrong!”

“It's alright! ~ If it's with us, it’s not wrong.”

 

The Castilian put his hands on the Portuguese's waist, who widened his eyes and tried to move away; however, his brother was stronger than him... When had he become stronger than him? That frustrated him immensely.

But feeling Antonio's lips on his own made his psychological condition worse. He was disgusted with that, especially when the younger one deepened the kiss. Alfonso was still trying to break free, but the Castilian was holding him harder, depriving him of running away.

 

“You're difficult, _hermano_ !” He began. “ _Me encanta_!” He lowered his hands to Alfonso's ass, who flushed horrors. “Does that mean I'll be your first?”

“L-Leave me!”

“Is that a "yes"?~”

“Antonio, leave me now!”

 

The younger one made a mouthful and let go of the other, very reluctantly.

 

“All right, Poncho.”  He began. “Don’t forget, we have to go to Madrid tonight, so prepare everything,” and he left.

 

Frustrated with that, Afonso slammed his fist on the bed, and beneath it came a large, red-eyed albino snake.

 

"Oh, Aurora, did I woke you up...?"

 

The snake hissed to catch his attention, since she didn’t hear or see him very well, and Afonso went to the dresser to fetch a flask with a clear liquid. He approached Aurora and dribbled a drop in her mouth. Suddenly, her body shone and changed shape, becoming a beautiful young woman with blond hair like gold and eyes of the honey’s tone; her features had a Moorish look, though her skin was white, and her breasts were medium in size.

When he sees the nakedness of the enchanted moura – a maid spellbound by her husband or father to protect the treasures left, while the enchantress escapes from something –, Afonso went to his wardrobe and removed a dress for the blonde.

 

“Honestly, master, I have already lost the shame of being naked in front of you…” she said, putting on her dress.

“Even so, I want you to be dressed, even if the potion's effect lasts only a little…”

 

Aurora looked at him and smiled – her smile was like a mother, affectionate and willing to listen to her child's words.

 

“Your aura ... Has something happened, master?”

“I married my brother…” he sighs, putting a lock of hair behind his ear.

“But have you forgotten about our Highness?”

“No! Of course not, Aurora!” Afonso was offended by this statement; he would never forget his beloved.

“Forgive me, master.”

“It's all right,” he sighed again; the situation began to frustrate him.

“Master, do your children already know that? And your colonies...?”

“... Only a few. I'm going to write letters to them.”

 

Aurora looked sympathetically at him and got up, hugging him then.

 

“Everything will be all right, master.”

“Yes…” he hugged her back. “Ah ... I can’t take you to Madrid... And I don’t know if Amália will accept to take care of you, considering that you are a snake... I don’t even know if she will come with me to live in Madrid…”

“Hm... Master, didn’t you have a son who adored me who lives relatively close...?”

“You speak about Lino...?” He pulled her away from his embrace. “Yeah ... He's an option.”

“And Amaldiçoado can make visits to see if everything's alright with me,” Aurora suggested, referring to Júlio. “After all, he's the only one who knows I'm an enchanted moura.”

“Yes ... He now lives with the Bragança, I think he can come,” he smiled at Aurora. “Let's do this!~ Ah, I think Lino was in the castle. I'll go find him.”

“Right.~”

 

**_Salvador, Captaincy of Bahia, Brazil, Kingdom of Portugal and the Algarves_ **

 

The sound of the Albicastrense's footsteps echoed through the vast corridors, steady and at a moderate pace. He stopped in front of the door of the woman's bedroom who he loved – he never would admitting it because she wouldn’t correspond. Although…

 

“N-Nuno! Why didn’t you knock on the door, you idiot?!”

“It's not like I've never seen you naked, Carolina.”

 

In response, the girl took a pillow and, with a monstrous force, threw it against the blond, who fell to the ground. The fall hurt him – Carolina was extremely strong and couldn’t control her strength.

Carolina closed the door and just reopen when she was properly dressed in her pale green dress with yellow details. Carolina – or Guarda – was a growing woman. Though smaller than Nuno, she was taller than most girls, and her breasts were medium. Her hair was dark brown, long and stuck in a bun, and her eyes were blue.

Nuno – or Castelo Branco –, on the other hand, had blond hair, with curly peiot on each side of the head, and light brown eyes; he was pale as a ghost – would burn during that forced stay in the colony.

 

“You look beautiful,” commented Nuno, who entered in her room. “A letter came from our father.”

“Oh, is it good news?”

“No,” he showed her the letter. “Our father married to our uncle.”

 

Carolina's eyes widened and she grabbed the letter, which was written on a sheet of sallow paper. She read with some difficulty (women who knew how to read were rare and she understood Hebrew writing better than written Portuguese).

 

“I can’t believe in it..." she murmured, incredulous and frightened. “Nuno, what if the uncle forces us to return? H-He is ruthless with the Jews...!”

“Our father never told him that we are Jews,” the Albicastrense began. “Chaya, we're safe here.”

“Are you sure...?”

“Yes.”

 

A small smile appeared on the girl's face, even though she was terrified of the idea of their uncle finding out the truth. Although their father was part of the Inquisition, he authorized them to leave for Brazil to care of Luciano, and allowed them to practice their religion, but hidden for no one else to know: not even the other brothers, especially the Inquisitors, those who were responsible for the Courts of the Inquisition.

In search of comfort, Carolina embraced Nuno, with a certain force. He moaned in pain as he felt bones crack and the Jewess let go, worried.

 

“Sorry, Haim! I was excited and used too much force and…”

“It’s alright…” He forced a smile, to hide the pain. “You hold me tightest at night.”

“Y-You silly!” She blushed, though she knew it was true.

 

Yes, they were lovers, but Nuno thought it was only a carnal act - he didn’t know, nor did he imagine, that he was reciprocated.

 

“A-Anyway, Haim, what are we going to tell Luci…?”

“We're going to have to tell you the truth…”

 

The brunette sighed and, to cheer her up, Nuno put her hand on her face in a slow caress. She blushed again and he liked the image.

He kissed her, fearlessly, and was answered by her.

Ah…  How he loved her…

 

**_Lisbon, Kingdom of Portugal and the Algarves_ **

 

Lino was now looking at the albino snake lying in the armchair, now at the blank canvas, with the brush in his hand.

The boy, dressed as a true Renaissance painter, had decided to make a portrait of the snake to give to his father – it was a way of rejoicing his father, who couldn’t take her to Madrid!

He began to draw the contours of the animal's silhouette. Meanwhile, he found himself lost in his memories.

 

In other times, Lino would be painting his lover. Mortal, the owner of curly brown hair that passed the nape of the neck, and with a longer wick on the right side of his head, equally curly, and with the eyes of a greenish-brown, had in himself the legacy of the Italian beauty of his ascendants.

This one would be lying on the sofa, which was in a carmine color, at the atelier of the personification of Leiria. Without clothing, only a cloth covering the intimate part, it would be possible to notice the swarthy skin and the perfect physical constitution in the eyes of Lino; it was as a Greek god.

 

“Iseu,” Lino would call with affection. “We can take a break if you want.”

 

The descendant of Italians would smile – and Lino would notice that beauty mark in the upper left corner of his soft, appetizing lips to kiss – and rise from the couch, heading for the dark-haired lover, short and smooth, and blue eyes; so charming, though Lino had never thought his eyes were so interesting.

 

“Do you want to take this masterpiece into the bedroom?” Iseu suggested, massaging Lino's shoulders.

“Oh, that's tempting,” he would reply with his usual smile. “As you wish, my Apollo.”

 

Iseu would take the smallest one – although being immortal, Lino appeared to be only 15 years old, unlike Iseu, who was living up to his age, 18 years. He would walk to Lino's room; he was used to sleeping there and doing other things that no one could know: it was wrong in God's eyes and yet Iseu felt it was right, natural.

Tonight, it wouldn’t be different.

The model would remove the paint-stained clothes from the painter and kiss the entire skin; his skin was a light swarthy hue. He would leave marks as proof that Lino was his and his alone. He would possess him, in the midst of confessions of love and moaning.

And, in the end, they would reach the apex together.

 

Lino didn’t even realize he had finished the painting; it was perfect, in his opinion.

He sighed; he shouldn’t be stuck with memories more than half a century old. Iseu had died of old age twenty-one years ago.

The immortal followed the life of the model; they had been together most of the time and Lino had no notion that death was so painful. He had had a lover before the Italian descendant, but the emotional strength he felt for both of them was of different dimensions.

 

“Aurora, I finished the painting,” he announced to the serpent, who didn’t hear him; she had no ears.

 

But even so, the enchanted moura stared at him. Not because of his voice, but because of his aura. It was melancholy, and without his noticing, he was crying.

Oh, God, why did death stir people like that?

 

**_Madrid, Kingdom of Spain_ **

 

After several days of travel, the royal carriages reached the alcázar. This would be Afonso's new home – very reluctantly.

Antonio had insisted that he and Amália should live with him in Madrid, and they agreed to come. To refuse could be frowned upon by the Castilian and it was essential to avoid disagreements that could end in violence.

In front of the great doors was a young girl, dressed like a princess. Her long brown hair was tightly bound in a bun with a red rose, and her eyes were brown.

He approached them with a steady step and his hands in front of the waist.

 

“ _Bienvenido, padre_.”

“Maite! You don’t know yet our guests, right?”

“No, _padre_.”

“Poncho, Amália, this is Maite,” he smiled. “She is Madrid, our new capital. Maite, he is Portugal and she is Lisbon.”

“It’s a pleasure meeting you,” she bowed, picking on the ends of her dress.

 

_Oh, she is more serious than Diego._ , thought Amalia, smiling cordially to the new capital. _I should get along with her._

 

“It's our pleasure, Miss Maite,” Amália said, bowing.

“I didn’t give you permission to call me that, Lisbon,” Maite looked at her with contempt. “Especially now that I'm superior to you.”

“Ah, Maite, don’t be like that!”

“Forgive me, _padre_.”

 

Amália felt very offended. Oh, how did that one dare treat her like that?! She had more experience as a capital than her!

She glared at Alfonso, who simply looked at everything with a face of boredom. Oh, he was going to let Maite treat her like this?!

 

“Ah ... Maite, guide our guests into their rooms,” Antonio asked, smiling. “I have things to prepare.” He glances sideways at Afonso, who shudders. “I'm going to your room to get you, all right, Poncho?”

“Right…”

“That being said, I only have to ask you to be well mannered, Maite,” warned the Spaniard. “Or Diego will be the capital again.”

“... Understood, _padre_.”

 

Maite promptly led them to their rooms in pure silence. As soon as she left them in their rooms, she retired to her quarters.

 

“ _Senhor meu pai_ , why didn’t you do anything when that...That girl treated me like that?!” Amalia asked, invading Afonso's room.

“What did you want me to do...?”

“Intervene! Tell that girl to shut up! I don’t know! You still have some authority!”

“Amália, things aren’t like that…” he sighs. “Besides, we better be careful... I have a bad feeling about this marriage…”

“Really...?”

“Yes. That's why I want you to be careful and not make anyone angry,” he said, in a tone of sorrow. “I do not want them to hurt you.”

 

Lisbon didn’t expect something like this; she was picked up unprepared.

 

“Right…”

“If you don’t adapt well, I can send you back to Portugal. Just ask me.”

“Huhum... By the way.... What are you going to do with _senhor tio_...?

 

He looked at her and smiled in a hurt way, scratching his head.

 

“I'm afraid I'll have to serve him as a husband… or wife, as he said.”

“What do you mean, _senhor meu pai_?”

“You'd better not understand, Amália. Adult stuff,” he made patted her head. “Now go to your room and rest. The trip was tiring, wasn’t it?”

“... Understood.”

 

Amália left, leaving the brunet to prepare for what was to come later.

 

***

 

“Take out all of your clothes, Poncho.”

 

Faced with such an order, Afonso widened his eyes but still fulfilled. He stripped off his clothes; meanwhile, Antonio watched the nervous and clumsy movements of his older brother.

As soon as his brother was naked, he sent him to bed and removed his own clothes. Then he bent over Afonso and ran his hand over his chest, down to his belly.

 

“Oh…” murmured Antonio. “You got a scar on your belly...?”

“Y-Yes…”

“A Moor? Or perhaps in a conflict in the conquest of some territory...?”

“I don’t remember…”

“Oh really? It seems recent.”

 

There was no response from the Portuguese. He wouldn’t tell Antonio that it was an attempt of suicide – he wouldn’t give him such pleasure. He wouldn’t tell him anything about his beloved King.

 

“To think that someone would dare leave you scars…” he murmured, kissing the scar. “Your skin is so thin.~”

“... You also have some scars…”

“Not this type! Looks like it’s a deep wound.”

“Yeah…”

 

That indifference was starting to infuriate Antonio. That would be their first time together; did his brother hate him for such treatment? There was heartache in Afonso's eyes, and that cracked the younger's heart.

He nipped one of his nipples, sucking it back. Roderich, though he didn’t admit it, liked that kind of caress. The Portuguese muffled a sound with his hand; he wasn’t expecting that!

 

“You don’t have to stifle your groans, _hermano_! No one will hear you!”

 

Afonso looked embarrassed at the other; in addition to the shame, there was humiliation and anger. How had he come to that point? Why had he married him...? He preferred that Portugal continue to be reigned by a Portuguese, like D. António. But he had been defeated, though he still persisted in his fight for the throne.

The other continued to suck at the nipples of the Portuguese, who put up with it to avoid groaning; he wouldn’t give the bastard that luxury. Antonio began to touch his shaft.

 

“A-Antonio...!”

“Oh!~ Yes, moan my name!”

“That wasn’t a moan, you fool!”

 

The Spaniard began to laugh, but Alfonso had no desire to laugh. With his wrist, he wiped the blood from his lip.

 

“Ah ... _Perdonáme_.”

“It's all right…”

“I love that in you, Poncho!”

“Huh...?”

“No matter what I do, you always end up forgiving me!~” he begins to kiss the other’s neck. “That's why that Moor…”

“Are you going to talk about our father again, Antonio?” Alfonso asked acidly. “Stop it ... It's annoying.”

 

With that statement, Antonio smiled immensely. Did his brother hate that Moor? Good! He suspected that his brother would have become a Muslim again; but now the suspicions have disappeared.

He kissed Afonso's neck again and picked up a flask of liquid. He wet his fingers with it and inserted a finger into the Portuguese's entrance, which arched his back as he felt it. He bit his lip, feeling the metallic taste of his own blood.

The Spaniard was an excellent lover; knew how to please its partners, regardless of gender. So, he did everything to make his brother relax and enjoy his first time.

He didn’t know that Afonso had already slept with other men and what the hell, why did he have to be so kind? It seemed... Sebastião to touch him...

No, he couldn’t compare those hands and those Spanish lips to those of his beloved highness...

The Spaniard inserted the second finger and time after the third finger. When he saw that his brother was relaxed (more than he was expecting), he inserted his shaft. There was no way Afonso wouldn’t make a noise. Antonio smiled, that sound was like music to him. He began to move, slowly, and delighted in the sounds the Lusitan produced.

Suddenly, Antonio's brown and messy hair became blond and smooth, and his olive green eyes, so similar to Afonso's, became blue like those of ...

 

“Se... A-Ah, Se-Sebastião...!~”

 

Antonio stopped moving, wide-eyed. Had his brother just moaned a man's name? _Who was this damn_ ... he began to wonder, until the answer came to mind. _His deceased King...!_

In an outburst of fury, the Spaniard raised his hand and, in an appalling movement, hit him hard in the face of Afonso, who awoke from his trance with the painful reality; his face burned like hell, and he brought his hand to his face, and as he became aware of what had just happened he felt his eyes damp. From one moment to the next, he had ceased to be in the arms of his Sebastião; he had returned to Antonio, dark and angry. Nor did he realize that he had transfigured the real, it was something automatic to happened.

 

“You…! _Sua perra_!” he began to scream with such a rage that he felt, with red faces. “Filthy! You slept with your King, huh?! What a whore you are, Afonso, to moan another man's name while you're fucked! By how many men have you been fucked already, you scoundrel?!” He gripped his thigh tightly, digging his nails into the flesh.

“A-Antonio…”

“Don’t whine, you miserable! Your dear king must be burning in hell for falling into the temptation to fuck you!”

“D-Don’t talk like that about Sebastião!”

“ _Cierra la boca_!” Antonio ordered, overcome with anger.

 

He felt betrayed; no, "betrayed" wasn’t enough to describe what he felt. He had been deceived! It was true that the two weren’t blood brothers, yet they shared the same ties as one, and the Spaniard had always desired Alfonso only for himself. It was painful to him to accept the fact that his beloved had slept with his own king; in fact, how many men more besides Sebastião did that bastard sleep?! Afonso wasn’t worthy. With that in mind, for Antonio, only death could cleanse those heinous sins that the Portuguese had committed. He put both hands on the older man's neck; death was something he could offer for all the betrayal... And he began to squeeze the soft, warm skin of Afonso, which in the past he only wanted to cover it with kisses and hickeys, in order to break it in half.

As soon as the Lusitan felt the other's hands squeezing the junkyard with such force, he tried to free himself, grasping the Spaniard's wrists; however, as much as Afonso used to get rid of it, the other had more strength. The Portuguese lost its strength every second - it was the imminence of the fall of his empire.

His breath was beginning to fail, and more tears came to his eyes. The dread of death took possession of himself; he was a coward. He wanted to kill himself and even attempted suicide, and yet when another opportunity to fulfil his funereal desire appeared, he was cowed in this way.

 

“A-An... An...To.. Nio...”

 

The said stopped struggling and stared at the despair and suffering on Afonso's pale face, and as if out of a trance, he was horrified by what he did, immediately withdrawing his hands. The Portuguese coughed hard, and his lungs demanded more oxygen.

 

“ _H-hermano, pe-perdonáme._ ”

 

There was no answer, the Portuguese hadn’t recovered from coughing. Antonio came out of him and tried to wipe away the tears that insisted on leaving the green orbs of the other, but Afonso stepped away in terror and trembling.

 

“D-Don’t touch me!”

“I'm sorry, Poncho! I-I don’t know what came over!”

“E-Everyone say that!”

 

Antonio didn’t understand what the other one meant, but he didn’t care. He only wanted his brother's forgiveness, but what he had done was unforgivable... But he didn’t want Afonso to hate him! No, no, no... Anything but that...

Without warning, he began to cry like a child, which made Afonso's eyes widen. That made him feel his heart tighten; his older brother instinct told him to hug him and say that he was okay, that he wasn’t angry, though that would be a lie.

And the worst? That's exactly what he did.

 

“It's all right, Antonio…”

“R-Really...?” he asked, almost weeping.

“Yes... Go to sleep. You need it…”

“H-Huhum …”

 

The Spaniard lay down like a child beside Afonso, sniffing now and then. The older man covered them with the covers, ignoring the desire to go clean himself.

Being thus lying with the youngest triggered memories of the time when they were small, when they were Moors and... that he was called Ghufran, _the one who forgives everything._

 

**_union_ ,**

**1** _. Action or effect of uniting; reuniting two or more objects; gathering; accession;_  
**2** _. Juxtaposition; conformity of efforts, thoughts, feelings;_  
**3** _. Marriage; marital attachment; extramarital attachment;_  
**4** _. The joining of an object to another of which, by nature, is separate;_  
**5** _. Gathering people for political, social and other types of purposes;_  
**6** _. Pact; alliance; league;_  
**7** _. Confederation; assembly or meeting of different States which, with a certain administrative autonomy, are all subordinate to a central administration or government;_  
**8** _. Association of many things so that they form a more or less harmonic whole;_  
**9** _. Moral or intellectual effort with which the mystics seek to join the idea or object that occupies the mind._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed!
> 
> I promise to not to delay at next time.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!


	3. Resistance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!  
> Yes, here I am!
> 
> It took so long and I apologize. :'v But, you know, life is a bitch.
> 
> Anyway, trigger warning: violence, blood, mention of slavery, torture. 
> 
> Please, enjoy this chapter! :)  
> (Spoiler alert: I was so mean to Afonso. I love you, I swear.)

**_Angra, Terceira Island, Azores, Kingdom of Portugal and the Algarves_ **

 

In that large room, with the thick curtains attached, allowing natural light to penetrate and illuminate the room, there were three teenagers (although this term didn’t exist at the time), together for a sort of meeting.

The leader and host, the energetic and talkative Paulo, looked at his fellows, Ponta Delgada and Horta, with a serious look; something not common to happen to take into account the hectic personality of this Angrense.

The Angrense had dark brown hair, usually messed up by running from one side to the other, and greenish-brown eyes that always emitted infectious enthusiasm, but not at that moment. Ahead, his skin was white, and he had freckles on his cheeks, which were red with the burner he felt inside.

 

“My comrades, we have a serious problem.”

“The backbiters say that we are under the Castilian rule.” Commented Horta, by the human name Pedro, although he insisted that they treat him by his Flemish name, Peer.

 

Pedro had light brown hair, curly, and green eyes, emerald tone; he swore that it was because of the Flemish presence in their territories. Beside him stood Miguela, the youngest and only girl among the three. The Ponta-delgadense had her brown hair loose, which reached to half her back, and brown eyes. She stared at the floor, afraid that this was true; she didn’t want it to be true.

 

“Unfortunately, that's true, Pedro.”

“It's Peer,” he murmured, a little cranky. “Wait, what do you mean, this is true?”

“The father married our uncle.”

“Oh heavens,” whispered Miguela. “But what about D. António?”

 

Paulo smiled upon hearing that name and showed a letter, with the coat of the Prior of Crato in the red wax seal.

 

“He asked for our help! And we, of course, will accept and defend the Portuguese homeland!”

“I…” began Miguela, uncertain of her words. “I can’t risk my people…”

“Excuse me...?”

“I'll be faithful to D. Filipe... P-pardon, brothers…”

 

She got up from the couch and bowed before leaving the room, leaving two Azoreans perplexed by that decision.

 

**_Ponta Delgada, S. Miguel Island, Azores, Kingdom of Portugal and the Algarves_ **

**_August 1st, 1582_ **

 

At the last 26th day, the naval battle between the troops of D. Filipe II and D. António, Prior of Crato, who had proclaimed himself King of Portugal, ended. He had been defeated; was a complete defeat, and the repression assumed an odious severity.

No prisoner of the troops of the Prior of the Crato, constituted by French, would be spared.

On the scaffold, D. Francisco de Bobadilla had read publicly and loudly the death sentence to those whom he considered as disturbing peace between France and Castile. The nobles would be beheaded while the others would be hanged - a sentence considered cruel by those present, including by the Castilian soldiers.

The sound of the iron piercing the human flesh of that noble stranger's neck made Miguela close her eyes in dread and horror.

 

“ _Esto es cruel..._ ”

 

Listened to the familiar voice, Miguela opened her eyes and saw her cousin Diego, who had come to fight in the name of the Castilian king.

Diego had dark brown, curly hair, with lighter ends, and olive green eyes, like his father's. He was full of blood and visibly wounded and tired.

 

“Cousin Diego, you're hurt…”

“I know… Mica, right?”

“No, my name is Miguela…”

“I'm correct ... ‘Mica’ is the nickname I chose for you.”

 

Miguela's eyes widened; neither Pedro nor Paulo treated her by a nickname. He was the first to treat her like this...

 

“Please accompany me to my house…” began Miguela. “I'll treat your wounds.”

 

The Toledan didn’t say anything; merely followed the younger one to her house. The villa was small, fit to be inhabited by two or three people, and cozy, religiously decorated. As he entered the room, Diego considered it to be faerie, which matched Miguela's vivid personality - so he liked to be around her, even though they had few moments together. If he were to compare her to his younger sister, Maite, he would see many differences. Mica was naive, immaculate, and jovial, while Maite was... Rigid, severe, a first-rate opportunist; she had usurped his capital post! He must have been the capital of their kingdom! Okay, that was now... Before she was cuter, always wanting the older brother's attention... But that could have been a mask that had just fallen... Maybe it was that...

The Azorean took the older to the living room and made him wait for her to come back with a bowl of water and a towel. He removed the robes from the top of his body, exposing the injured torso.

 

“It must be hurting a lot…”

“Yes... I hope you never need to fight.”

 

But Miguela wasn’t even sure of tomorrow, let alone the future; how would she know whether or not she needed to fight to protect her people? She couldn’t simply hide and wait for her people to fight and die for her. It had to be her to protect them, it was her job, right...?

She began to take care of Diego's wounds with attention and commitment; her skilful hands are moved with dexterity, accustomed to caring for sailors, victims of shipwrecks or whalers, wounded in whaling. As a woman, it was the least she could do.

 

“Why do you say that, Cousin Diego?”

“Only ‘Diego’ is enough.”

“I insist on calling you a cousin.”

“Right…” Diego stifles a groan of pain. “Because I don’t want you to hurt yourself.”

“Why are you so worried about me? I'm not from your kingdom... Oh, it was because I had been faithful to your king...? I did this to protect my people…”

“Oh, Mica, I worry about you as I worry about my siblings.” He began. “Besides, I find you particularly lovely.”

 

The Azorean blushed with such comment and stopped what she did, unable to continue because of such shame.

 

“You know, all my sisters are already grown, even the Canaries are.” He turned his face to her in order to see her. “They don’t need me anymore... My father doesn’t need me…”

“That's an exaggeration, Cousin Diego…” she began, wanting to comfort him. “Palmira and Mirta are older than I am... And it is true that Cousin Diego is no longer the capital, but it is still necessary…”

“Ever since I ceased to be a capital, I feel weak,” he confessed, lowering his gaze. “Look at these wounds; if I were the capital, I would have been stronger and I wouldn’t have been so wounded.”

 

Miguela bit her lip; What could she say? She didn’t have the privilege of being the capital of her archipelago; how much more of the kingdom! Whoever held this position, the capital of the archipelago, was her brother Paulo, who proudly demonstrated it with his strength and dexterity. A young prodigy who, in addition to being a charismatic person, who conquered everyone with his smile, was an important strategic point in the middle of the Atlantic and this contributed to him being the leader of the Azoreans.

And, not knowing what to say, she continued to treat Diego's wounds in silence.

 

**_Baías das Mós, Terceira Island, Azores, Kingdom of Portugal and the Algarves_ **

**_July 27th, 1583_ **

 

The Castilian armada under the command of D. Álvaro de Bázan, had landed in the Baía das Mós. He had ordered them to storm the island with false attacks, then to divide and confound their defenders and to easily invade the Mós’ cove.

The cannons opened fire as they approached the land, in order to make the landing safely in the midst of the provoked smoke. This made the defenders of the forts of proximity discover the intention of the Castilians to disembark in the bay. Both sides opened fire, and Baía das Mós became a theatre of horrors – something indescribable by Paulo, who was in the fort of São Sebastião, watching everything.

His heart pounded as he saw the Castilian soldiers approaching the fort; adrenaline and fear seize him.

Everything else passed too quickly for him to internalize; suddenly everything went black and he passed out.

 

When he woke up, he was no longer in the fort of São Sebastião. Instead, Paulo was in an unfamiliar bed, with blood running down his face; he had broken his head when he fell unconscious.

He looked to the side and saw Diego near the window, looking at it, aware of any suspicious movement. He struggled to sit down; he felt many pains in his body.

 

“What are you doing here, Castilian...?!”

“Saving your leather.” Diego rolled his eyes and watched the street again. “You'd better not get out of here or they'll make you a slave.”

“What...?”

“You lost the battle, Pablito. Give up and accept the union between our parents.”

“No... I can lose everything but honour!”

“What's good in your honour when your people are dying?” Diego asked, feeling irritated. “While you were unconscious, there was a slaughter out there because of your honour.”

“We fight for a cause…” Paulo was beginning to be uncertain about his choices; was he be doing what was right? “I-I don’t want to disappoint my father... H-He doesn’t want this marriage... I-I... I-I have to do something for him! I-I would be nothing without him and... I-I need to repay him!”

 

Paulo began to cry, sobbing loudly, muttering several phrases the other didn’t understand. The Toledan widened his eyes and hurried up to the youngest, feeling his heart tighten; he couldn’t bear to see others like that, it was a weakness.

 

“P-Pablito, calm down... Your father won’t be disappointed with this... He has already given up and... You are too young to suffer like this…”

“B-But my father... s-shouldn’t just suffer-like this...!”

“He won’t suffer, I swear.” Diego sat down on the edge of the bed and began to dry Paulo's tears “If something happens to him, you can... Ah, you can count on my help…”

“Help...?”

“For whatever you want.”

 

The younger one smiled and wiped his own tears away, causing Diego to move away.

 

“You're a good person, Diego.”

“ know, Pablito.” Diego smiled a little. “Ah, are you going to give up...?”

“No.”

 

Diego sighed; the youngest seemed indomitable... But the Toledan knew how to convince the other, after all, Paulo had a weakness: his family.

 

**_Horta, Faial Island, Azores, Kingdom of Portugal and the Algarves_ **

**_August 2nd, 1583_ **

 

“If you stop resisting and persuade your brother Paulo to do the same, I'll let you live, Perucho.”

 

Pedro looked at Diego, grabbing hard on his own shoulder. His whole body ached... That Castilian bastard had defeated him, and now he was pointing his sword, stained with blood. The Faialan had never hated anyone as much as he was hating Diego at the time.

 

“I will never do that!”

“In fact, you guys like to sacrifice your people for selfish ends.”

“It's not a selfish end!” Pedro exclaimed, biting his lip to dim the pain in his shoulder. “I do this for Afonso and Paulo…”

“I see you don’t see Afonso as your father.”

“Why should there be?” He was visibly annoyed by that. “I am more Flemish than Portuguese.”

“And you defend a Portuguese cause and not a Flemish one. Contradictory, isn’t it?”

 

The Hortense didn’t answer; Diego had just reached a weak point of Pedro. He was too proud to confess that, yes, he considered Afonso as his father, just as he considered Paulo and the others as brothers. The family was important to the insurgent, however much he didn’t admit it.

 

"I..." Pedro began, already regretful for what he was going to say. “I surrender…”

 

**_Angra, Terceira Island, Azores, Kingdom of Portugal and the Algarves_ **

 

Several days had passed since Pedro surrendered. Paulo didn’t want to believe it when he heard; his brother would never surrender to a cause as noble as the one they had! No, impossible!

But now the Hortense was in front of him, in a state more pitiable than his own. God, what had they done to Pedro...?

 

“Is it true that you gave up...?” Paulo asked, swallowing hard.

“Yes…”

“First the elders, then the Miguela, and now, you, Pedro, my most faithful brother?”

“We're not brothers…”

 

Paulo slammed his hand on the table, furious at this. He refused to accept that the other didn’t see them as family. How ungrateful! Afonso had given him a life, a family! Why did he refuse to accept it?!

 

“Why don’t you accept once and for all that you're Portuguese and our brother, _my_ brother? Seriously, Pedro, that annoys me a lot! Heavens!”

 

That fit of rage made Pedro back down – it was scary when the older one was like that; it was seldom that such a thing happened. Seeing the other was frightened, Paulo sighed. It wouldn’t be worth it.

 

“Sorry.” Paulo murmured, scratching the back of his neck.

 

The Hortense said nothing, just lowering his gaze. He wasn’t worthy to look at Paul after he had surrendered.

 

“Who caused you so much damage?”

“Diego.”

 

Paulo's eyes widened with a response. Diego had hurt his brother?! No, it wasn’t possible; the Toledan had saved him... But... What if this was a plan of Diego to make him surrender...? No, no... He couldn’t hurt his brothers...!

That wouldn’t be so... But now he was alone... Only against a great empire... It was a battle more than lost...

 

“Ah... I give up.” He announced.

“What...?”

“I'm going to surrender.” His face was serious, and Pedro knew he was telling the truth. “Don’t worry, I'll protect you from everything, _Peer_.”

 

That made Pedro's heart tighten-the way he said his Flemish name showed... Magoa, disappointment, sadness... That hurt him more than the fight had with Diego. He disappointed Paulo...

 

On 11 August, in the village of Praia, on the island of Terceira, D. Filipe II of Spain was proclaimed King of Portugal.

 

**_Naples, Kingdom of Naples_ **

**_1598_ **

 

Antonio stared at the coach window, staring at the trees and arranging his thoughts. He was now on his way to Naples; a subject had appeared there, claiming that it was D. Sebastião. A blasphemy! Sebastião was _dead_. This bastard had what he deserved, and if he returned, the government of Filipe III under Portugal, crowned that year, would be at stake and, as a nation, Antonio had to prevent it. So he and Afonso went there to confirm whether or not he was. His brother, after 20 years, had lost the hope that his beloved was still alive. Whenever there had been a case of these, of someone pretending to be the King, Afonso would verify the authenticity, and be seeing that he wasn’t, he himself would punish the impostor mercilessly. With each punishment, the more he lost hope.

The Castilian was awakened from his thoughts as he felt his brother's head on his shoulder; Alfonso slept soundly and that made him smile on his face. Since the nuptial night, he hadn’t touched Afonso again with ulterior motives, and it seemed that he had returned to his brother's confidence. Knowing that Fonz didn’t hate him rejoiced, but he no longer saw him with the same eyes; Afonso was unworthy, after all.

The pageboy that accompanied them looked at them curiously, but the Spaniard scolded him with his eyes. This frightened him and then looked away, afraid. Antonio was scary...

When the coach stopped, the Castilian touched Alfonso's face to wake him up. He opened his eyes slowly, blinking a bit, trying to get accustomed to the brightness of the day. He shifted in his seat, stretching himself.

 

“ _Buenos dias, hermano_!”

“Good Morning…”

 

Antonio leaned over his brother and kissed his cheek. The other didn’t react, so sleepy he was. Knowing Afonso, he would only notice what had just happened in a few minutes, when he was fully awake.

The pageboy, however, was disgusted to see it and left the coach, followed by the look of the Castilian.

 

“Hm... What does he have...?” The Portuguese asked, yawning.

“He is probably nauseated.”

“Of the trip...?”

“Yes, of the trip.”

 

The Lusitanian believed in the little lie of the other and left the coach, stretching his legs with almost childish satisfaction. He stretched out the rest of his body, not noticing the Spaniard watching him, waiting for a reaction.

And this reaction soon came, with the red cheeks, Afonso looked at the younger, his hand on his kissed cheek.

 

“Ah! It didn’t take as long as I expected!”

“Silly...!”

“Hehe ~ Ah, let's go look for Nicolau.”

 

Afonso said nothing, merely followed his brother to a cluster of people who, by the language in which they shrieked, the Portuguese concluded that they were, for the most part, Castilian.

 

“Oh! We won’t have to look for Nicolau.” Antonio announced, noting the wrath of his people there. “The impostor is there!”

"Let's beat up this dog already..."

 

Afonso stepped forward and plunged into the crowd, struggling to get to the front and see the bastard who was pretending to be his deceased beloved. The Spaniard followed him, with the same difficulties. As soon as he was with the older man, he was surprised that the Portuguese was very quiet as if he were... Shocked.

He looked at the said impostor, who was being seized by a Castilian; his hair was blond and had a beard and moustache. It was apparent that he had been very mistreated, with blood on his clothes and running from his face. Antonio smiled sideways; the bastard had what he deserved.

 

“Se…”

 

Antonio looked at his brother, who was trembling at the sight of the man, and this frightened him.

 

“S-Sebastião!” Exclaimed Afonso, disbelieving with what he saw. He was his beloved! That was Sebastião!

“A... Afonso?!”

“What do you think you're doing, your Castilian?!” Afonso shouted, approaching. “Put him down! He is El-King D. Sebastião, my King!”

“ _Pero es un impostor_!”

“He is not! Or call me a liar, you miserable dog?!”

“ _Hermano_ , what are you doing?” Antonio grabbed the older man's arm, pulling him toward him. Sebastian didn’t like to see that.

“Antonio, free my king! This is Sebastião!”

“No, he isn’t.” The young man squeezed the other's wrist tightly, filled with misunderstanding. “He's a sorcerer, Poncho! He's tricking you!”

“W-What type of stupidities are you saying!” Afonso tried to break free, but the other was stronger. “Antonio, get out of here, you're crippling me!”

 

On hearing this, Sebastião tried to free himself from the Castilian who grabbed him, but he was too wounded to achieve such a thing. He despised Antonio with his eyes, who had a sarcastic smile on his face. He wouldn’t let Sebastião return to his power... He wouldn’t let him touch his brother again; no, never again. He loved Alfonso the longest and wouldn’t be an unreliable mortal to separate them, not now that they were finally together.

With this thought in mind, he kicked Sebastião's face, which moaned in pain. Afonso's eyes widened at this.

 

“Antonio, what do you think you're doing?!”

“Shut up, Afonso.” He ordered, glaring at Afonso. "This isn’t Sebastião.”

“I-I know very well that he's Sebastião! I would never mistake him!”

“Ah…” Antonio drew his face closer to Afonso's ear. “And when you called his name while I fucked you, you whore?” He whispered, nibbling at his ear.

 

Afonso felt his cheeks flushed – both shame and anger – and pushed his brother with a kick in the belly, then took a black painted dagger beneath his big coat and pointed at the younger.

 

“G-Get away from me, you bastard! And free Sebastião! Now!”

 

The Castilian looked at him with a lively burn in his eyes as he pressed his hand to the spot where the Lusitanian had kicked. This was an affront; how did his brother dare to oppose him? Revolt against him? After all that Antonio had done for him, for the freedom he gave him...! Afonso was ungrateful! A lethargic one who didn’t care about his own brother's feelings!

Well, Afonso was asking for it and he would have it. He looked at his compatriots behind the Portuguese and motioned for them to approach. They did so, in an approach as abstruse as hasty, that Afonso didn’t have time to think about what to do. He had his arms bound by two Castilians. In an attempt to free himself, he turned his own body hard and hit one of them with his dagger; on the blade, it contrasted the black of the ink and the red of the blood.

Other Castilians tried to immobilize him and he resisted. Taking advantage of the fact that his brother was distracted, Antonio had them take Sebastião away.

When Afonso noticed the beloved's absence, it was late. In despair, he manages to dodge himself through the mob and runs off, searching for his king. No, he couldn’t lose him again! It had once been enough...! God, oh God who Afonso had forgiven when he saw Sebastião alive, had just given him another chance to have his love, and he couldn’t spare it. To lose him again would mean breaking his heart again and the Portuguese would not take that terrible pain again. Again, again, _again_... No, he would do anything to avoid this.

He ran everything his body could do, even if his lungs beg for oxygen. He wouldn’t stop until he finds Sebastião and keeps him safe; the safety and comfort of his arms.

He arrived at a port and stopped, to breathe urgently; on the quayside, he noticed on a ship, practically on the other side of the harbour, that a reasonable number of slaves were embarking. In the big vessel, he announced his name in Castilian, which made him think that those poor men would go to the Spanish colonies. Between them, however, he noticed someone with a white skin tone, almost ebony in contrast to the black matrix of Africans, and blond hair... No, it couldn’t be...

He ran there, eager to get there before the ship sailed. His prayers weren’t heard; the moment he arrived, the boat left. Sebastião embarked on that slaver vessel as a slave.

And again, God broke Afonso's heart into so many pieces that it was almost impossible to pick up together again. That was the last time the immortal saw his beloved.

 

Shocking as it was, Antonio wasn’t surprised that he had found his brother in tears. He could have taken advantage of that. To take advantage of the fact that the Portuguese was ruined and win his heart, make it his thanks to the weakness caused by mourning. He would eventually forgive him for what he did.

But no. Antonio was angry. That wouldn’t have been enough to calm the burn inside.

 

“Afonso, stop crying.” He ordered, his voice so cold that the older man shivered with fear.

“You knew I loved Sebastião!” He cried aloud; anyone who was around had heard for sure. “Why did you do this, Antonio?”

“He was an impostor.”

“He wasn’t! That was my love, Antonio! He was my Sebastião…”

 

Antonio's lips twitched and he gripped the other's wrist tightly, pulling him forward. The Portuguese saw no other choice but to follow him, without complaining of the pain he felt in his wrist; that pain was nothing compared to the pain he felt within him.

 

The Kingdom of Naples, or simply Nicolau, waited for Antonio and Afonso at the gates of the dungeons; for some reason, Antonio wanted to use them. Nothing against, he would receive a generous reward for allowing this from the Castilian, which would help buy a painting or sculpture of some great Renaissance artist and defeat his brothers in the race for the title of the most refined City-State. Nicolau was only a teenager; his hair was dark brown with a fringe over his left eye and an _ahoge_ , oriented to the left, and his eyes were a greenish-brown. Petiz, thin, not very muscular – in fact, he had no warrior profile, but he was very clever and meticulous, and as such, he was a first-rate strategist.

As soon as he saw the elders, he was surprised by their faces; Antonio was furious, while Afonso showed deep sorrow.

 

“I was waiting for you,” Nicolau announced, approaching them.

“You can go now.”

“I don’t mind waiting…”

!But I don’t want you here.” Interrupted the Spaniard, clucking his tongue. He was furious, and Nicolau, as a strategist he was, thought it best not to contradict him; he had never seen him so angry in my life. That and he was frightened, but he wouldn’t admit it.

 

So Nicolau returned to his house and would never know what would happen in those dungeons.

 

Afonso walked the cold corridors, accompanying Antonio in a silent and uncertain path. He didn’t know what he was doing there, but he didn’t feel comfortable asking the other man that he was very angry. Besides, it was shattered inside. He wasn’t afraid of what might happen; nothing would be worse than losing the love of his life. Antonio had just destroyed his will to live on, and nothing else would be able to affect him. But what a joyful mistake that was!

All he had to do was enter an empty, cold, damp cell of grey stone walls with scattered chains to frighten Afonso. When he finally asked what they were going to do, he felt his hair being pulled; he exclaimed in surprise and pain. He was pushed against the bars of the cell and his right arm was grabbed behind his back with force.

 

“A-Antonio, what do you think you're doing?!”

 

The Castilian said nothing, merely squeezed his arm harder and let go Afonso's hair – so soft, sweet-smelling – and he took the other arm behind his back. He pulled out his brother, who was struggling to free himself, but the younger one was stronger and stronger than he... His empire would fall, and if it continued any longer, Portugal would be only a province of Spain. It was pathetic as it had come down so low; he had been a powerful empire, had lived glorious times and astonishing, and yet he couldn’t get rid of that furious Antonio. He felt a deep fear; the adrenaline took possession of his body... His breath was out of breath, his throat was dry, his eyes were growing wet again, his heart was pounding so hard it hurt...

Antonio pulled him to the other side of the cell and fastened his wrists with chains, cold, attached to the wall. He pushed the older man against the wall, causing him to slide to the floor, sore.

Then the Castilian walked up to a hook in which was a single leather whip hanging from the leather; took this one, and, as he approached the old man again, he was whipping on the floor in a demonstration of power. This worked since Afonso was terrified of it; the sound of the whip hitting the floor echoed through the cell, filling the mind of the Portuguese with thoughts of sheer fear.

As soon as he was close enough, he whipped Afonso's leg, hard. He moaned in pain.

 

“A-Antonio! Stop!”

 

Again, no answer. Antonio simply moved the whip, with mastery, and hit the Portuguese leg in the same place again. Hearing the other with moaning in pain, he smiled, feeling great pleasure at seeing him succumb to the pain.

But that alone wouldn’t suffice. He drew a dagger from beneath his big coat and turned Afonso on his back. Then, skilful, he slid the blade and lacerated his clothes, in a single vertical movement; Afonso had felt the tip of the blade on his skin and arched his back in fear.

 

“Be still, Afonso.”

 

Without waiting for an answer from the older man, Antonio again used the whip, leather against his skin, ruthless and obstinate, repeating and repeating, delighting in the sounds of agony of Afonso. His back was bleeding, revealing the wounded flesh. This made Antonio feel superior; Afonso was submissive to him... as he should always be. After all, the Lusitanian was unworthy, insidious, a scoundrel who should beg God to forgive him, though he would never, but never, have divine pardon; didn’t deserve it. But death wasn’t enough, no, Afonso had to pay for his sins and hell wasn’t enough for that. Antonio would make Afonso spy for his sins and pay for them.

Afonso's blood and sweat mingled, as did his groans and screams, the sounds of chains and those that were provoked by the leather whip mingled in a painful symphony. His throat already ached from screaming in pain, almost voiceless. He only wanted it to end.... But he was promptly silenced with a whipping dangerously close to his face. In this way, he had to wait for that torture to end...

 

As soon as the Castilian put the whip on the hook, Afonso knew that he had finally finished the torture. He couldn’t move because of the pain he felt. He didn’t know what to think; he would never have imagined that Antonio would be capable of such an atrocity against his own brother. After all he did for the younger...

His eyelids were heavy, announcing that the resistance to becoming conscious was losing against fatigue, and in a few seconds, the Portuguese had fallen into a sleep, full of nothing.

 

**_resistance_ ** ,

 

**__**1**.__** __Act__ __or effect of resisting; resistant quality__ ** _ _;_ _ **  
_**2.** Quality of a body that resists the action of another, tending to nullify it; _ ****_  
_ _**3.** Fatigue, hunger, and so on; _ ****_  
_ _**4**. Physical vigour; _ ****_  
_ _**5.** Cause that opposes the movement of a body; _ ****_  
_ _**6.** Self-defense of what fights against external elements; sustained struggle against an energetic action of the armed force against an attack. _ **__  
**

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you very much for reading!  
> I hope you liked this chapter and continue reading the next ones. Also, I don't know when I'll post the next one because I still need to translate it. But I'll update! I swear!  
> Feel free to say what you think about it.
> 
> So, until next time! Bye!


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